


Forever hold your peace

by Firecadet



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M, Forensics, Old-Fashioned Police grunt work, Perspiration not Inspiration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-18 22:25:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7333117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firecadet/pseuds/Firecadet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Camille is badly injured during a drugs bust that goes badly wrong, Poole is left to catch the man responsible. After nearly losing her, he must also confront his feelings for her, and admit them to himself. </p><p>Chapter 1 updated 18/07/16</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Right, team, the search warrant is signed.” Poole said, looking at his surprisingly small team of officers. Given the size of the island, four officers (including himself) felt like a small team to keep a lid on the population. One major riot, and they’d be dropped in the khazi.

Fortunately, the population of the island was not restive. Most of the local criminals helped Dwayne get his daily exercise, and generally returned what they’d been on their way to the police station to hand in. it was a far cry from his (thankfully brief) days in uniform. The Falcon incident he’d got tangled up with had sped him into an office based role.

Today, they were doing something he found painfully familiar from his days in uniform. They (aka Dwayne) had been given information about a house in Honoré with a poorly and dangerously bypassed meter (normally something Dwayne would handle). When he’d gone to pay a visit, and help with the meter someone had carelessly bypassed, all of the windows had been blacked out.

“We believe that the premises at 45 Rue de Paysan is a cannabis factory. As such, we will be executing a no-knock search warrant.”

“Do you mean we get to use the Key, Chief?” Dwayne asked.

“Yes, Dwayne.” Poole replied. Ever since the item had arrived via airmail, Dwayne had wanted to test it. “You will be allowed to use the Enforcer.”

Camille and Fidel stifled a grin at Poole’s insistent use of the official nomaclature. Everyone below Inspector, and most of those above it, knew the item as ‘The Big Red Key’. Capable of delivering three tonnes of force to a door, it saved trying to kick them down.

“DS Bordey will be posted around the back of the premises to secure the rear exit.” Dwayne and Fidel will effect entry, and secure the premises.”

It wasn’t something he entirely felt comfortable with. Camille, capable though she was, was still, at the end of the day, not as physically powerful as most men. He knew she’d be able to hold her own in a scrap, but even so, his inner British man chided him. He looked away slightly, realising that he had been more than slightly studying her.

Not studying her was getting harder and harder. It was like… when he was at university.

He was making one other concession to executing a drugs warrant in the Caribbean. Everyone, including himself, would be wearing a vest. Given that they were not very far from Guadeloupe, and that two major drug trafficking routes ran through the area, he wasn’t too keen on taking chances.

In an ideal world, he’d also have a fully equipped firearms unit on standby. Given that the St. Marie firearms unit was also known as DS Bordey, and had a .45 submachinegun, and a pistol, both locked in a safe at the commissioner's residence, he had decided that it probably wasn’t that practical. Dwayne and Fidel, theoretically, also had firearms training. In practice, it meant that they knew which end went bang, and could probably hit a target at ten paces.

“Any questions?” he continued. “No, Dwayne.”

“How’d you know what I was going to say?”

“Because I have spent the last two years working with you.” Poole replied. “I know that while you are a good copper, you are unlikely to ask constructive questions.”

With that, the team headed for the Defender.

It was a short drive across the bay. Camille, on driving duty, managed to avoid most of the potholes. The pedestrian traffic, and other road users, knew to give way.

From the outside, the target premises looked fairly ordinary. A typical house, even if the meter had been unprofessionally tampered with. It was only from about ten feet away that the blacking out of the windows became obvious.

With a silent nod, Camille hoped over the fence, and took up a position by the back door.

-0-0-0-

Landing in the uncut scrub on the far side of the fence, Camille was glad she was wearing what Poole, for reasons lost in the mists of time and englishness, called 'public order boots'. The courtyard was full of long, thick grasses, including several tufts of what looked like pampas grass. If that wasn't bad enough, she knew that this was the sort of environment where snakes lived. Sweating slightly at the thought of encountering a Fer-de-lance snake, a type that they (read Dwayne) were semi-regularly called out to remove from swimming pools and holiday lets, she schlepped towards the back of the property.

-0-0-0-

“Dwayne, if you’d be so good.” Poole said, shortly before the rickety shack door was ripped from its hinges and thrown backwards into the property. Dwayne and Fidel surged forwards, with a yell of ‘Police with a warrant!’ Both of them were branishing the batons Poole had got his hands on, eighteen inch extendable sticks of light aluminium with a rubber tip.

-0-0-0-

Although she'd only seen them used a few times on imported British policing documentaries, Camille recognized the sound of the 'big red key' hammering the door off its hinges. Given that the St. Marie building code was limited to commercial premises, she wasn't surprised to hear the sound of the door hitting the floor, followed by the sound of Dwayne and Fidel storming through, yelling what she thought of as a policeman's warcry.

In front of her, perhaps ten feet to her left, a tarpaulin suddenly flew open, and a man, wearing an unseasonably sized hooded sweatshirt, came barreling through. When he saw her, he paused.

"Stop, Police!" She yelled, moving towards the man as his hand went into a pocket. It came out with one of the largest pistols she'd ever seen, even while working undercover and in Paris. The barrel seemed to gape as it swung towards her, and the gun went off perhaps three feet away from her chest. The primal scream she produced as the bullet tore through her torso, just below her rib cage, sounded like a wounded big cat.

Previously, when she'd been shot, it hadn't been at such close range, or with such a powerful weapon. It was like being clubbed with a baseball bat. She was thrown backwards, and could feel the edges of the wound interacting with the ground. She knew that the bullet had gone through her vest, somewhere. She tried to lift her arms, to defend herself, but all the strength of her body just seemed to ebb away. As she slipped into a daze, her last coherent thought was:  _I never told Richard how I feel about him..._

-0-0-0-

Then Poole heard, vaguely, Camille yell something.

Then a sound he really didn’t want to hear. Very loud, and very close, and more drawn out than most.

But it was still clearly a gunshot.

And then he heard Camille scream. He’d heard angry, frustrated and grief-stricken screams from her.

This was pain and terror.

Utter terror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had the general idea for this story to create a situation in which Poole, stuffy, reserved, English and quite possibly autistic, feels obliged to admit his feelings to Camille. 
> 
> Gunshot trauma is something that has cropped up in a few of my stories. Although this is the first not set in the GFFA in recent years. There are bonus kudos to anyone who gets the slight reference with regards to 'a Falcon incident'. In this case, it isn't fraud squad.
> 
> Updated 18/07/16 with additional material.


	2. Chapter 2

Poole hadn't vaulted a fence since Hendon. As he clambered over, carefully, he saw a man dressed in dark sportswear disappear around the back of a neighbouring property. Although he didn't get a good look, he managed to pick out an Adidas logo on the back of the man's hoodie. He could see a silver object flashing in his hand as he fled.

Then he was by Camille's side. His DS was lying on the floor, clutching at a hole in her vest with her right hand, with an ominous red pool spreading beneath her. Looking into her eyes, he saw bafflement, shock... and something else. Her eyes were usually dancing pools of brown chocolate. Now, they were dull, almost lifeless.

_Ok, step one: call for help..._

"Dwayne!" He yelled. "We need the first aid kit. Fidel, call an ambulance!"

_Step two: airway..._

Briefly, he listened at Camille's mouth. "Richard..." he heard her, almost whispering, as she clutched at him with her left arm, trying to pull herself upwards. "I..." she broke off, coughing up blood.

"There's an ambulance on the way." Poole reassured her. "Stay with me Camille. Stay with me."

Behind him, he could hear Fidel demanding the nearest ambulance, now. He also heard the door slam on the defender, and running feet.

Trying to pretend this was just a training exercise, Poole realised Camille was in danger of drowning in her own blood. The only thing he could think of to do was to roll her into the recovery position. She fought him, trying to pull him closer, for some reason, but he was able to place her in the recovery position.

Dwayne dropped down next to him with their medical kit. Although none of his team were trained medics, Poole had managed to get a full medical bag sent over by a Trojan unit he'd done a favour for.

Without thinking, he cracked open the bag, before pulling out the oxygen bottle and mask, and slipped it onto Camille's head, before turning on the valve. He could hear one of the island's ambulances approaching at speed. He... couldn't lose her. Not now. Not now she was a friend.

Finally, as he simply held Camille, monitoring her breathing, the paramedics arrived. They didn't waste time at the scene. Carefully, Camille was placed on a stretcher, and the ambulance departed, siren blaring.

Dwayne looked him in the eyes, before gesturing inside.

Inside the building, Fidel was systematically clearing perhaps sixty cannabis plants. In one corner of the shack, on the floor, there was a dirty mattress, topped with a well-used sleeping bag. Next to it, almost in the island tradition, there was a mound of beer bottles. Pulling a pair of gloves from his pocket, Poole collected one of them, which still had the dregs of beer in the bottom.

Dwayne stood watching as Poole dropped the bottle into an evidence bag, before taking it as Poole stepped outside.

Knowing that he was replacing emotion with procedure, he headed for the hospital where Camille had been rushed. There was only one actual hospital on St. Marie, which had only three beds capable of taking a gunshot victim.

He was driving on autopilot. Before he'd set off, he'd turned the defender's blues and two's on, which at least kept his path to the hospital clear. The population knew that anything in the way of the defender was in trouble.

Nothing seemed quite real. His mind kept skittering back to the brown envelope in the bottom of his desk. He'd bought the card weeks ago, in the Smiths at Heathrow. He'd actually thought about handing it to her.

Despite himself, he ignored a sign indicating that a particular bay was for ambulances only, and left the defender there.

Hurrying through the A&E section, he stopped at the desk, and showed his warrant card. "DI Poole, here to see Detective Sergeant Bordey." He said, focusing on the routine of the exchange.

"One moment." The receptionist responded. "Ah. It would appear that your friend is in theatre."

"I need to make a phone call." Poole said. "Send out a porter when she's out of surgery." He knew she'd chide him for being so curt, but he couldn't help it.

The receptionist nodded, before turning back to deal with her next case.

It took Poole a minute or so to find a bench in the shade. Extracting his mobile, he opened up his phonebook, and hit the second number on the screen.

"Inspector." The Commissioner answered after a few moments. "I trust your raid went well."

"I'm afraid that's why I'm calling you, Sir." Poole said. "During the raid, I'm sorry to have to inform you that DS Bordey was shot."

"Shot?" Poole could hear the shock. "Is she badly injured?"

"She's in surgery at the moment, sir."

"Have you told her mother?"

"That will be my next call, sir."

"Inspector, Caroline Bordey is an extremely emotional woman. I do not believe she would react well to a phone call telling her that her only daughter has been shot and is in hospital."

Thinking about the fiery bartender, Poole nodded his agreement. "I'll pay her a visit right away."

"See that you do, Inspector. I would prefer to be able to buy a drink in her bar in the future."

"Sir." Poole said, before putting the phone down.

Turning to head back inside, Poole stopped when he saw a taxi scream to a halt, having forced its way through to the front entrance.

_I have had enough of the way everyone on this godforsaken island drives! I swear, Camille probably improved her driving when she was in Paris. No-one could get a license driving like that in the UK._

Marching over, Poole hauled out his warrant card. He'd issued a few tickets while in uniform, and was determined to have a word with the taxi driver.

He was met by a blisteringly furious Catherine Bordey coming the other way.

"Why didn't you tell me Camille was in hospital?" She demanded. "You took her on an operation, and sent her to guard the rear exit on her own! And now she's been shot! Because you, sent her to guard the rear of the place. Alone!"

"Catherine, I was just on my way to tell you." Poole replied. "I followed the ambulance to the hospital."

"Oh." He could tell, in his own way, that she was not very happy with him. But that she might be less totally unhappy than before she heard that.

"Dwayne came around from the station, and told me that Camille had been shot, and that I should go to the hospital."

"I'll thank him for that later." Poole said, dryly, before turning around to go after the taxi driver, who'd made the classic mistake of watching the street theatre. "Oi, Sunshine." He called. "I want a word." He was brandishing his warrant card like it was a holy book.

"Yes, chief?" The man replied, far too chipperly for Poole's liking.

"Dwayne?"

"Chief?"

"Whose taxi is this?" Poole asked, resignedly.

"Well, chief, someone left it outside of the bar, and I thought that lady like Catherine wouldn't enjoy riding in the bike."

"So you stole a taxi, and drove it here, breaking most of what pass for traffic laws on this island?" Poole demanded.

"Err." Dwayne vacillated. "Well, you could put it like that?"

"Go and return it. Try to obey some of this island's traffic laws this time."

"Yes, chief." Dwayne said, before heading straight out of the exit, back onto the road leading to the hospital.

Shaking his head, he headed inside, before taking a seat next to Catherine.

About ten agonisingly silent minutes later, a nurse arrived.

"Sir, Madame, Sergeant Bordey is out of the operating theatre, and she's awake. And she's asking for 'a rude Englishman who is probably in the waiting room.'"

"That's verbatim, is it?" Poole asked, dryly. He'd had to lock her rubber snake in the evidence cupboard to stop it appearing in his desk, in-tray and random files.

"It is. I asked at reception, and they pointed me to you."

Shaking his head, Poole got to his feet, followed by Catherine, before they both followed the nurse.

Looking around, Poole saw a lot of things he wasn't too keen on. The corridors were clean enough, but he could tell that animals could get in, particularly through the open, unglazed windows. There were also insects buzzing around lazily. Some of them had the particular drone he associated with Aedes Aegypti, better known as the Yellow Fever Mosquito.

To his relief, Camille's bed was screened with a mosquito net. Although she wasn't intubated, he could tell she was badly ill, simply from the way her body rested in the bed. Her usual spark, mostly of mischief, seemed gone.

Both of them ducked under the netting, before sitting in the chairs someone had thoughtfully placed inside.

"Richard? Mamam?" Camille asked, sounding like a time Poole remembered very clearly. The phone in his shack had gone at three in the morning, and he'd picked it up to hear a very drunk Camille declaring eternal love to him, and asking him to marry her.

"Camille." Catherine said, looking at her.

Poole nodded awkwardly, before leaning forwards slightly.

Before he knew what had happened, he could feel arms around his neck and shoulders, pulling him forwards, off-balance.

And then, without hesitation, Camille kissed him on the lips, hungrily, barely giving him a chance for his eyes to widen before their lips met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I think most authors who write for this pairing recognise, the chances of Poole making an unforced move on Camille are best expressed in the form n^10-x. As such, part of the reason for Camille's injury is to provide that impetus.
> 
> This chapter is a more typical length for one of my stories: the first chapter didn't have enough bulk once I'd finished telling that part of the story.


	3. Chapter 3

Poole couldn’t find the muscle groups that would raise his hands to his neck and push Camille away. They just wouldn’t respond to any signal he tried to send them. All his body wanted to do was to catalogue this novel experience, and drink it in.

It was about thirty seconds before Camille broke away from him, and pulled her head back. Eye contact was made, directly into her eyes. Despite a surge of discomfort, Poole didn’t try and twist away for a few seconds. He found himself drinking in what seemed like a pair of carnelian gemstones, shining with an inner light from the moment.

“Ah.” He heard behind him. “So this is why Camille stopped going along with those nice young men I set her up with.” Catherine sounded almost disappointed. “I’d have thought you’d have at least told your mother about it.”

“Catherine…” Poole objected, almost frantically. He would have said more, but he was suddenly unable to speak again, as Camille pulled herself upwards, gluing herself to his lips. Again, everything conscious wanted to, or perhaps felt it should, push her away, while everything at Id level thought ‘Mate. Protect’ was the order of the day.

Eventually, she broke away, with the same glow in her eyes as before, and Poole finally managed to untangle her from himself.

“We’re not a couple!” he objected, frantically. “I’m… me. And she’s her! It must be the opiates. It’s like before, when she drunk-dialled me.”

“What is drunk-dialled?” Catherine asked.

“It’s when you make a phone call, when you’re three sheets to the wind!” Poole almost yelled. “She proposed to me, over the phone, half in French, and slurring her words so badly I barely understood them.”

“Well.” Catherine replied. “She has been in hospital many times, and she’s never kissed anyone like that before.”

“No.” Poole said. “She probably hasn’t. But that doesn’t mean it’s appropriate! Or acceptable! I’m her superior officer! I’m responsible for her!”

“Richard…”

“She used to put a plastic snake on my chair. Or in a case file. Or under the first item in my in tray!”

Catherine actually laughed.

“She knew I hated snakes!”

“Richard, when she was a child, she used to put lizards in the shower-room. Then they started appearing in the rest of the house. Eventually, I found one in a cooking pot when I took the lid off. I nearly thrashed her for it.”

“Mamam…” Camille said, slurring slightly.

“You knew full well I didn’t want those filthy things in the house. And yet you wanted to keep them as pets.”

“They were cute, Mamam.” Camille insisted.

“If I hadn’t stopped you, you’d have brought an iguana on the internet when you were fifteen.”

“Are you going to get out the baby photos?” Camille asked, exasperated.

“Not unless decide not to give me a straight answer.”

“Catherine, we are not a couple!” Poole insisted.

Camille made a grab for Poole, who managed, using one of the few things he remembered from self-defence at Hendon, to detach her. Flushed, and panicking, he made his exit from the ward.

He didn't stop running until he reached the Defender.

_Ok... that was..._

His conscious mind was throwing up words like inappropriate, unprofessional and unpleasant. The part of him that still thought mammoths were a food commodity, though, had a very different perception of what had happened. It was dancing and cheering, reminding him of a few dreams involving a bikini-clad Camille.

 _No_. He insisted firmly, while he put the 4x4 into gear, and headed back into Honoré. _I am a professional police officer, and I am not infatuated with my detective sergeant. That would be..._

His train of thought was broken by another Id generated fantasy of what it might look like if Camille's bikini disappeared. _No_. Poole insisted. _I will investigate this case, and bring the scrote responsible to book. By the book._

Vaguely, he remembered hearing about a Greater Manchester DCI who'd been hit by a car, and claimed to have woken up in 1972. He'd spent months in a coma, then recovered, seemingly grown disillusioned, and jumped from the roof of the police station where he worked.

He didn't know what to make of it. But he knew that era had been about emotion, backhanders and violence. None of which had furthered policing, the cause of justice, or contributed to the rule of law.

And that there was a very good reason for PACE.

Dropping the Defender into its usual parking space by the station, he headed inside, carrying his ballistic vest in one hand, and Camille’s damaged vest in the other.

“Dwayne, Fidel!” He called. “I need you to go and collect all of the CCTV from around Honoré, and ask around for anyone trying to dispose of a ‘used’ pistol.” As he spoke, Poole was rummaging in his desk, hoping that the snake hadn’t escaped captivity again.

At the bottom of the second drawer, he found a small brown envelope, anonymous among half a dozen others. After checking that Dwayne and Fidel were gone, he opened the unsealed envelope, and looked at the simple card inside.

It was a classic British style: red roses, interwoven with ribbons, wildflowers and a simple title: For a Special Someone. The title was picked out in gold leaf, on a soft cream background, and the card felt stiff and expensive. The inside of the card had been left blank.

On the transatlantic flight, he’d filled it in.

‘Camille,” He read. “I don’t know what the circumstances of you seeing this will be. Maybe I’ll have finally plucked up the courage to hand it to you. Maybe I’ve been reassigned and you are clearing out my desk for my replacement. I hope you never read it after my death.

It wasn’t long after I arrested you that I began to feel something. I wasn’t sure what. I liked being around you, even if we fought like cats and dogs sometimes. Not that that’s changed too much.

When you went to Paris for that IT course, I felt incomplete. I felt out of sorts, like something was naggingly wrong. Then there was that business with Detective Sergeant Young, who, when I was in London, had been reassigned to the Case Progression Unit. That, if you don’t know, is professional death. I know I insulted your mother’s chicken soup, but I still maintain it tasted like feet.

Since then, I don’t really know what’s been happening. I think of you regularly. I look forward to seeing you, even if we are just doing paperwork.

I don’t know what I’m feeling, really. If you’re unhappy, because of a row with your mother, or some stupid little thing I’ve done, I feel it too. Everything that happens, I find myself finding strength in you. And it all keeps coming back to that.

Over the course of the summer season, I never entirely forgot about whatever little thing you were doing. And then, that night in the observatory happened. And, lying close to you, sharing body heat, on that improvised bed of ours, I felt complete.

I’ve never felt that way before, not even with Sasha. Oh, I wanted to be around and with Sasha, but she never had eyes for me. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard for me to feel like this again. Because I want to get close to you. See what can happen. Just maybe, something will come of this. Of us. Of Beauty and the Beast.

Richard.’

Sitting back, Poole read the card through several times. He’d covered both sides of the square card with handwriting, barely leaving enough room to sign at the bottom. He’d just tucked it into his desk when he heard footsteps. The cadence was all-too familiar.

“Sir.” He greeted the Commissioner.

“Inspector.” Came the reply. “From the fact that you are at your desk, I am guessing that Detective Sergeant Bordey is out of the woods.”

“She’s awake.” Poole said, realising that in spite of himself, he’d forgotten to actually ask about her condition. “And… rather demonstrative. I think it must be the opiates.”

“Ah.” The Commissioner replied. “Demonstrative, you say. Such a lovely English word. Not that I am surprised, really. The number of times her little jeep has been seen on the road to your shack… I’d have thought she’d be keeping a closer watch.”

“What?” Poole asked.

“Inspector, on Saint Marie, the rules of London are thousands of miles away.” The main sat down on the desk opposite Poole’s. “Here, we operate on a principle of what is best for everyone. I was confused, though, given your love of rules, that you never told me about her visits in the night. Surely, as your superior officer, I deserve to have that information.”

“I never told you, sir, because nothing has happened.”

“My informant suggests that Sergeant Bordey has spent upwards of twenty nights at your shack.”

“She’s never stayed the night, sir.” Poole repeated. “We’ve almost never been alone. Dwayne and Fidel are always invited, and usually present.”

“I see.” Patterson said, with a sceptical twist to the words. “You have never been intimate with an extremely attractive woman who visits you at night at least once a week?”

“As I said, sir, she’s never knocked, or even indicated her presence.”

“Inspector, you don’t need to be so defensive. You are my best officers. My most senior. If you are in a relationship, frankly, it is of no concern to me.”

“We aren’t in a relationship, sir.”

“Hmm.” It was another special version. “I will take your word for it. Please suggest to Sergeant Bordey that she exercises more care when she visits you in future. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Well, sir, if you could ask Captain Ryan at the garrison for some support, it would be helpful.” Poole said. “I’m currently down my most effective officer. And given what happened, I’d be most grateful if I knew there was someone available to stop a repeat, sir.

“You want some soldiers from the garrison to form an ‘armed response’ unit?”

“I do, sir.” Poole said.

“I will try and arrange something.” The Commisioner said. “Good luck with the investigation, inspector. Do tell me if there is anything I can do to help you.”

“Sir.” Poole said, before the man walked out, just before Dwayne arrived back.

“I’ve got the tapes from…”

“All of the pubs in that part of Honoré?” Poole asked dryly.

“Well, now you come to mention it, Chief.” Dwayne replied. “I think I did visit most of the bars. Just in case our gunman had dropped in for a drink.”

“And had he?”

“Not as far as I know.” Dwayne said. “But if you want, I could go back and check.”

“As tempting as it is, Dwayne, I’d much rather have you here, helping to analyse the tapes.” Poole said. “I remember, in Croydon, you could follow the cats around on CCTV. Let’s see what we’ve got. Remember, we’re looking for a man in dark sportswear, wearing a hoodie with a large Adidas logo on the back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that at times in this chapter, Poole sounds a tiny bit out of character. I couldn't find a way for his character to say some of the things he says, so I had to use my words instead. I also wonder if anyone will get the reference midway through the chapter.


End file.
